


And Never Again I'll Go Sailing

by Edoraslass



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M, Reverse Little Mermaid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The seventh and youngest son had sharp bright eyes, a sharp bright wit, and a sharp, bright, burning desire to be nowhere but on the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Never Again I'll Go Sailing

**Author's Note:**

> Equally deeply indebted to The Little Mermaid and _Splash_  
>  Copious fetishization of Arthur’s eyes, blatant reference to other fairy tales and fandoms, implied mermaid sex, archaic phrasings, and flowery prose, but hey, it’s a fairy tale.
> 
> Title from Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea"

~*~ 

Once there was a kingdom, small and only of note because by happy chance, its sprawling sea-harbour was strategically located on the main trade routes. It was a peaceful kingdom, overall, if one overlooked the rowdy, bawdy ruckus in the taverns near the waterfront. That was only to be expected, for sailors are not always the most peaceful of men, and it was a kingdom whose wealth had come from the sea.

Naturally this kingdom had a king, noble and kind, and this king had a beautiful queen wife and seven handsome prince sons. The first son, destined to be king when his father died, gods forbid long live the king, was everything a crown prince should be: brave and true, strong and honourable, and intelligent and well-loved by all the people. 

The second son was also strong and honourable, and a mighty warrior who reveled in battle, which might have been unfortunate, for as I have said, it was a peaceful kingdom overall. But neighboring kingdoms were not so peaceful; oft the second son traveled to foreign lands to lend aid and he was lauded by the people of the foreign lands for his bravery.

The third son was slightly less strong but equally as honourable as his older brothers, and he delighted in learning of all sorts. He was a scholar, the most brilliant scholar in four countries, and when the second son traveled away to war, the third son went with him as a counselor. 

The fourth son was very strong, the strongest of all the brothers, and if he was not a scholar or in fact even able to read without difficulty, there is no harm in that, for he was gentle, good of heart, and unequaled in his horse-husbandry skills.

The fifth son was neither markedly strong nor particularly intelligent; not blindingly handsome nor painful to look upon; the fifth son was extraordinary only in his ordinariness, and truth be told, he was the best-loved of the people because of it.

The sixth son, most peculiarly, took no joy in the sea, but instead was fascinated by the earth. He could coax flowers and crops from the stoniest ground, and the sixth son tended the palace gardens himself, choosing apprentices with greatest care and deliberation.

The seventh and youngest son had sharp bright eyes, a sharp bright wit, and a sharp, bright, burning desire to be nowhere but on the sea. He was, in truth, the most handsome and brave of all the brothers, curious and clever and gifted with the power of persuasion beyond any counselor, even the third brother. 

However, the seventh son, whose name was Eames, was – how shall I say delicately? – a bit of a black sheep. He was not _quite_ a disgrace to his family (he was far too clever for that), but neither was he entirely approved of by his family members. Oh of course his father and mother and brothers loved him, but they did not _approve_ of him. 

Eames enjoyed raucous nights in those waterfront taverns; drank and gambled and caroused until shocking hours of the morning, often came home staggering when he went home at all, and spent more nights sleeping on a ship more often than not. Many’s the morning some poor fisherman went to his sloop to find Prince Eames snoring on the deck.

It is very hard to approve of a prince who does such things, for princes are to set a standard for the people of his land, and this behaviour, I hardly need tell you, is not precisely the example a king would wish his son to set. 

Lest you think poorly of him, let me reveal that Eames did not neglect his duties. He was a sailor through-and-through, all precision and fearlessness and yes, ruthlessness when need called for it. For although the kingdom itself was relatively peaceful, the seas surrounding the kingdom were not. 

Poor example or no, Eames was loved dearly by his men. He was not a cruel commander, nor would he put his men in unnecessary danger. Perhaps he liked taking risks more than another man might, but his judgment was keen, his luck uncanny, and since Eames had come of age, the main shipping lines were free from the scourge of pirates which had plagued its waters for so many years. 

“It is not surprising that Eames has a wild streak,” his grandmother was fond of saying when her son the king would despair of Eames’ antics, “for he was born in the midst of a hurricane, under a witch’s moon, and such children are not destined for the calmness of a provincial life.” 

Eames was his grandmother’s favourite, although she would deny it, for grandmothers are supposed to love all their grandchildren equally.

~*~ 

‘Twas, as they say, a dark and stormy night when His Majesty’s Ship the _Paisley_ hit a terrible squall more than fifty miles from its home berth. Later Eames would not remember much: driving sheets of rain, rigging torn asunder by fierce winds and flung about the deck, the shouting of the men, the dreadful sharp _crack_ of the mizzen mast snapping in two and striking him between the shoulderblades.

He did not remember sinking like a stone through the white-capped waves. He did not remember how he came to be gasping upon the shore, clad only in tattered breeches. He did, however, remember strong arms around his waist, curious dark eyes in a beautifully severe face, a smooth, scaled hand brushing lightly over his exposed skin, and lips pressed to his forehead, remembered it with a clarity that burned like hot coals in his chest.

~*~ 

When Eames first awoke between cool linen sheets, wounds tended and bandaged and his mother fluttering around him, the first thought to enter his mind was _He saved me_.

He did not rightly know who “he” was, but he had no doubt that a “he” had saved Eames from the cruel embrace of the sea, saved him from certain death by drowning. 

And it burned. Burned like the red sky at night, that sailor’s delight, burned like whisky six months from proper aging, burned like fighting the need to inhale when one was still ten feet from the surface. It burned like thwarted desire.

~*~ 

Perhaps you are wondering why Eames was not made uneasy by the notion that he had been saved from drowning by a scaled someone. But of course Eames had seen many strange and mysterious things in his years a-sail, for the ocean is a strange and mysterious place, with far more peculiarity beneath its surface than most land dwellers would ever dream.

Why in fact Eames had barely been out of short pants when he saw his first merperson. He had been very young, in awe of ships and all their workings, and his father the king had at last given into Eames’ pleadings to be made a simple midshipman, at least for one brief journey. 

Eames had been giddy with glee, and had insisted on standing middle watch with the enthusiasm only exhibited by young men who have not stood middle watch before. The old sailor(who would never be more than an able seaman, but who was very patient with the young prince) had fallen uncharacteristically silent, and Eames had been staring out at the path laid out upon the glass-smooth waters by the full moon, when a quiet splash caught his ear. 

He thought he had imagined it, but then the splash came again, louder this time, and Eames dashed to the rail to peer over into the water – he was not quite accustomed to military strictness yet, you see. 

Under the illumination of the moon, Eames saw what appeared to be a boy in the water, a boy Eames’ own age. His heart stopped in his chest, and for a moment, he could not think of what to do. Then he recalled that he was meant to cry out “Man overboard!” and was drawing breath to do that very thing when the old sailor whispered in his ear, “Do not say a word, son,” and Eames, for a wonder, obeyed. 

For all that the words were barely audible, the child must have heard, for he spun about in the water, and his dark curious eyes met Eames’ squarely on. Eames was frozen to the spot with delight; for a moment, he and the strange boy simply stared at each other unblinkingly. Presently, however, Eames raised one hand, and waved.

The other boy tilted his head, puzzled, and then hesitantly waved back. Eames could not keep back a wide, joyful grin; the other boy mirrored the expression and made an odd, gurgling sound, a sound like the gentle slapping of water against the hull. 

“Looks as if you’ve made a friend,” the old sailor breathed, and Eames realized the other boy was laughing. 

Then came a loud, flat barking sound that grated unpleasantly in Eames’ ears, and the other boy jerked, glancing about guiltily as Eames himself often did when caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. With one more quick wave, the boy leapt from the water, arcing prettily in the air for an instant, moonlight glistening off his shimmering tail before he vanished beneath the surface.

“Tis good luck,” the old sailor proclaimed, “having the favour of the merpeople.”

Since that time, Eames had seen many other merpeople, though none revealed themselves quite as boldly as the boy had. Eames often wished he would see that same merman again, and often told himself that he had, but he knew that it was not true. He remembered those dark curious eyes always, hoarding the memory close to his heart.

So you see, Eames was not made uneasy by the notion that he had been saved from drowning by a scaled someone because he remembered the dark curious dark eyes in a beautifully severe face, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had been saved by that boy, who was Eames’ own age, and by now a man, as Eames was. And not like Eames was at all.

~*~ 

In the least-savoury part of the city, there was a sorcerer. The sorcerer’s name was Yusuf, and he was not of the city, but had come from a far-off land that had only been visited by young men killed in a foreign war, decades before Eames’ parents had even met.

Yusuf was frowning deeply at Eames, but Eames was a consummate scholar of people, and could tell that Yusuf was frowning more at being confronted with a novel request than of disapproval. 

“You would like for me to make you into a merman.” Yusuf’s voice was deceptively bland.

Eames’ breath caught and held painfully in his throat. “You believe in the merpeople.” Those who had spent their lives on land dismissed the notion of merpeople as drunken sailors’ fancy, and refused to hear such tales, even when they readily admitted the existence of dragons and manticores.

Yusuf threw Eames a scornful glance as he tended to a long glass tube over a tiny flame. “Why should I not?” he asked. “I have seen them many a time. I have three scales from the tail of the oldest mermaid in the entire ocean, and a piece of coral from the throne of the sea’s goddess.”

Eames tried to keep his eagerness hidden, but could not quite see the point of doing so. “Then you will help me?”

Yusuf was silent for many moments. He picked up the tube with his bare fingers, showing no sign of being burned by the hot glass, and swirled the contents of the tube around with a methodical, almost lazy motion of his hands. “There is a price,” he stated, but Eames had known there would be. 

“Name it.” Eames refused to be shunted aside, not when he was so close to achieving his goal.

Yusuf pondered carefully, as if considering what would be a fair price for such a great bit of magic. “Your voice,” he said at length, and by the way he spoke the words, Eames knew there would be no haggling. But it was his nature to try.

“Why my voice?” he asked, sitting on his hands to keep from squirming. “I am certainly no singer. And under the water, it is not as if I would be able to use my voice.”

Yusuf laughed and shook his head. “My dear ignorant prince,” he sighed. “There are many types of voices, and not all come from the throat. The merpeople have their own ways of communication, and who is to say that their understanding of ‘voice’ is not as correct as ours?”

Eames mused on this. “So I could not communicate with any creature of the sea?”

Yusuf dropped a broad wink that Eames somehow found unsettling. “There are many ways to communicate,” he said, infuriatingly obscure. “Perhaps you should consider the merits of body language?”

Eames did not mean to flush so darkly, but he did; he could feel his face heat. “And if I agree to give you my voice?”

“Then that would be your payment, and I would be satisfied with it,” Yusuf shrugged, dropping something small and wriggling into the glass tube. It flashed blue so brightly that Eames was forced to look away. “But the potion is not everlasting. It will last three days. If, in those three days, you cannot capture the heart of your merman fair, then your legs will return, you will drown, and your soul will become nothing more than flotsam and jetsam.”

“Is that all?” For all his whimsical imaginings, Eames had never been entirely convinced of the concept of a soul, and so this consequence was not entirely fearsome as it might have been to a more pious man.

“You will perpetually feel as if you are only an instant from drowning,” Yusuf warned. “Your lungs will scream and swell and you will need to fight every instinct to drawn in a breath, unless and until the object of your affections gives his heart to you, unreservedly.”

You will have noticed that Eames did not think it notable that Yusuf referred to the object of Eames’ affections as “he”, and to that I say that Yusuf is a sorcerer, and sorcerers know many, many facts that are usually left unspoken.

I have also neglected to tell you of Eames’ impulsive nature, although perhaps you will have guessed, and if so, you will therefore not be surprised to learn that Eames pondered this tidbit of information for barely the space of a heartbeat. “I am willing,” he said simply, and with such conviction that Yusuf the sorcerer said nothing more.

~*~ 

The potion tasted like fish left to rot in a barrel for an entire season. It tasted like graveyard dirt and decomposition and a thousand hundred shipwrecks and yet Eames closed his teeth and swallowed it as if it was the sweetest mead, not letting a single drop escape. When he had imbibed all the liquid in the tiny vial that Yusuf had given him, Eames looked and found that his legs had been transformed into a muscular tail, shining golden green with iridescent scales which glowed blinding in the first light of the rising sun.

Eames was so taken with the beauty of his own tail that he forget he must needs immerse himself in the sea, and so it was fortunate that Yusuf’s wife Aridane had accompanied him. With a laugh that was not entirely unsympathetic, Ariadne rolled Eames into the briny water, and at the first touch of the salten ocean, Eames flicked his tail and propelled himself into the depths without so much as a fare-thee-well.

~*~ 

Yusuf had not lied or even exaggerated. Each time Eames flexed his tail, there was a corresponding vice-grip around his lungs, urging him to head upwards, upwards, oh please all you gods and tricksters, please let me breathe, let me taste the air I will die, I will die with lungsful of water and plankton and kelp and oh gods help me I can’t

but Eames, being possessed of what his parents referred to as “bloody-mindedness”, shoved these visceral reactions away, and sped through the coldness of the dark blue waters, searching for his saviour.

~*~ 

Time passes strangely beneath the waves, and so Eames was not sure if an hour or three or whole days had passed. He saw a giant school of manta rays which parted as they glided around him; an octopus which reached for him as he swam past its lair; a leviathan with teeth as long as his arm lazily inhaling acres and acres of krill.

He had no sense of place, no landmarks by which to guide his way, nor, truly, any idea where he was going. He saw ships he recognized, lying bare bones on the sea’s floor, narrowly escaped a pod of orcas out for a bit of entertainment, was almost ensnared by a lonely, wailing siren called Mallorie, which looked nothing like a mermaid and more like a cross between a squid, a shark and a forlorn poet living in an oyster.

Eames tore himself loose from the siren with a pantotmimed tale of the course of true love never run smooth, and the siren (who are not as heartless as the tales would have you believe, for all they truly want is one being who will devote their hearts wholly and irrevocably; they are truly the most romantic of creatures), took pity and gave Eames directions towards the kingdom of the merpeople, ruled by a king by the name of Cobb.

~*~ 

Eames found himself taken prisoner by the king’s guards, and could feel nothing but exhilaration. Despite being treated as a spy, he was certain that his hero would be found within mere moments.

He had, you see, forgotten about his lack of voice.

~*~ 

He tried. Oh, how Eames tried to express himself to the guards, the man-at-arms, the maids who drifted in and out of his cell bearing a plateful of fish for his dinner.

He thought at all of them, _I just need to see one of you. I just need to see this merman_ , tried to project an image of dark eyes in a beautifully severe face, but he received no response, none at all. And only then did Eames realize how very, very slim his chances of finding that beautiful merman were.

~*~ 

Time passes strangely beneath the waves, and therefore Eames had absolutely no concept of how long he had been imprisoned. He was held in a sunken ship (the _Dauntless_ , he thought), overgrown with strong coral, and though of course he tried, he was unable to so much as crack the bars of his cell.

He did his best not to use his tail, for he was weary and displaced, and fighting the compulsion to breathe took up a great deal of his will. So he made an effort not to swim in an active manner, merely let himself float as the currents cared to carry him, and focused his every waking thought on the merman who had saved him from the ship’s wreck. 

If he had been honest with himself, Eames would have realized that he had barely a day’s time left. But truth be told, Eames had already resigned himself to a watery grave, and was not keeping track of time. He was preoccupied with remembrances: remembering the silken touch of a manta’s wings against his arms, the delight and joy in catching hold of a whale shark’s fin and letting the creature pull him through the depths, the pity for the siren, wondering how one would live with such loneliness and solitude. 

Eames had always been a creature of the sea, but only in giving himself over to the ocean was he able to understand that he was alive here in way that he could never be when he was tethered to the land. And, although he ached to find the merman who had saved his life, Eames was quite, quite content to die like this: struggling for breath, fighting for oxygen, with a tail instead of legs.

Because he was a creature who had been born to the wrong world, and he would rather die young in the correct world than live a long life of quiet desperation in the wrong one.

~*~ 

Eames had drifted into a doze, and when a vibration in the water awakened him, he expected nothing more than the attendants delivering his breakfast lunch or dinner.

To his heart’s utter disbelief, the person outside the cell was in possession of beautiful, dark, wide eyes. A body of strength concealed, unless one knew what to look for in the lines of his arms, shoulders, hips before they disappeared into the musculature of a shimmering blue mother-of-pearl tail.

“You are the prince,” said the merman, face more severe than in any of Eames’ daydreams, giving away nothing.

 _Yes,_ Eames tried to reply. _Yes, I am the seventh prince. I am the one whom you pulled from the pernicious waves, the one you touched with such controlled intent. You are the one I am looking for, the one I gave up my entire life to find._

But of course Yusuf had taken his voice, and he could communicate nothing.

When Eames did not reply, the merman’s face fell ever so imperceptibly. “Have you nothing to say to me?” His voice was small, soft, bordering on heartrent.

Eames tried and tried, and could not communicate a word, though his eyes filled with tears of anger. So instead, he reached through the bars, and let his fingers linger on that severe, strong, sharp face.

There was silence for a long moment, the silence of a massive civilization at the moment of its downfall. 

And then, then, the merman leaned forward, closer than in any of Eames’ elaborate daydreams, and murmured, “But how come you to be here, beneath the waves and in such handsome guise?” and Eames’ heart leapt so violent it nearly escaped his chest, and he leaned forward a few scant inches to press his lips to that of his saviour’s.

It was a long, endless, rending moment which could not have lasted more than a handful of seconds, but it was enough. For somewhere in the middle of Eames kissing the mernman, and the merman pulling back with a startled, hot gaze, the sensation of drowning vanished. Eames was aware, if only peripherally, that the danger of soulness had passed, but he was not overly inclined to wonder on this, as the merman’s lips and tongue and hands were claiming Eames for their own, and who, indeed, would argue with that?

~*~ 

“I am Arthur,” the merman said at some point, and while it was convenient to know, Eames was not particularly concerned with details such as names, for he did not need name to be put with a face; it was almost incidental.

Be that as it may, Arthur is, oddly, almost exactly how Eames’ fevered brain remembers: dark eyes, thoughtlessly tossed hair, a body both slight and strongly muscled at the same time. A hint of quiet humour in the quirk of his lips, the sparkle of curiosity in those dark eyes that Eames can barely tear his own gaze from.

”I dreamed of you,” Eames reveals as they are lying on a bed in Arthur’s dwelling: Eames is sure that he is not using the correct terminology, as he still thinks in land-dweller’s words. “I dreamed that you pulled me from the wreckage of a doomed ship, that you kissed my forehead and touched my hair.”

Arthur replies, “Of course I did, for I should not like to deprive myself of such a simple pleasure.” He laughs softly, a sound like the gentle slapping of water against a ship's hull. “I did not want to return you to the shore; I wanted to keep you for myself, but I knew that was impossible.”

Eames smiles, wide and happy. “But as you can see, it was not.”

Arthur laughs again, and kisses Eames’ waiting mouth. “I would not have dared dream it could be true.”

~*~ 

Occasionally, Eames returns to his family’s shore.

His father refuses to visit, and to all and sundry, spends memorial days mourning his beloved seventh son, lost to the sea. In the town square, there is a huge commemorative statue and garden to the men lost on the _Paisley_. Eames’ name appears first. He himself has never seen the memorial, nor does he care to. Once in a great while, Eames will visit the wreck of the _Paisley_ , and pays his respects in his own way. 

His mother slips away to see him now and again; his brothers each come once. Rather, most of his brothers come once - the fourth is fascinated by Eames’ transformation, and the fifth comes to discuss matters of the navy, for he is now its commander.

His grandmother visits as often as Eames will come to shore. His grandmother is the only member of his family to meet Arthur; she is charmed by Arthur’s shyness with a land dweller, spins tales that cannot possibly be true of her own meeting with a comely merman, and Arthur smiles secretively, as if he has already heard a different version of the story.

And when one day Eames meets a merman who strikingly resembles his very own father the king, he passes on his grandmother’s greetings, drops the hint that his grandmother often walks along a certain bit shoreline at night when she cannot sleep, and feels well-satisfied when the merman’s eyes light up with unconcealed joy and longing.


End file.
